Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

“Excellent!” said Gwydion. He clapped his hands together. “My royal father will be pleased. And this will be a perfect test for the
Glory,
commanded by Captain Broadlow here, the first officer in our new aerial corps.”

Gwydion gestured to the man behind him, who gave a polite nod. “Admiral,” said Broadlow.

Wintermourn only narrowed his eyes at the man. He felt the instant disdain all navy personnel possessed for other branches of service.

“And,” continued the crown prince, “this will be an excellent opportunity to try out these Brass Paladins.”

The admiral paused. His dispatches had mentioned the prince’s arrival in an experimental airship. But nothing had been said of the armored machines. “Pray you, sir, what are these...devices?”

The crown prince turned to face the nearest one. “The Paladins? Why, I’m glad you asked! These are the stout and redoubtable wave of the future. I’ve a small platoon of marines back aboard the
Glory,
but these are Perinault’s newest soldiers. My father may have his Order Gallant, but here I have my Brass Paladins, redesigned from the horses of Triskelion and improved by our guest back at the palace. With my own modest input, of course.”

Crown Prince Gwydion reached out and slapped the nearest automaton on the back. At that moment a wave shifted the deck of the
Colossus.
The officers and crew alike adjusted. Even the Brass Paladins shifted their stance with a sudden, alarming internal whirr of clockwork.

The prince’s blow proved a bit too much, however. It sent the Paladin toppling over, arms flailing for balance. The mechanical warrior slammed into the deck and slid towards the portside railing as sailors and marines alike scrambled to get out of its way. One failed to move fast enough. The Brass Paladin slammed into him, bowling him over and pinning him up against the rails. He screamed as the deck settled again, legs crushed underneath the weight of the automaton.

Sailors rushed to assist their crewmate as the bosun blew with alarm into his whistle. They surrounded the Paladin, which flailed around like an overturned beetle, clockwork whirring inside its carapace as it attempted to rise. Its gyrations only compounded the agony of the sailor beneath it, who cried desperately for help.

As twelve pairs of hands grabbed at the automaton, it suddenly went berserk. The Brass Paladin flung four men away with one arm, sending them sprawling across the deck. Then it balled up a gauntleted fist and swung out as it kicked at those near to its feet. Both blows missed, but the surprised sailors had barely any chance to recover before it was rolling aside, reaching for the heavy pepperbox musket at its back.

Crown Prince Gwydion ran past, a blur of red and gold. Admiral Wintermourn felt his eyes bug out as the prince leaped onto the heaving chest of the automaton. It slammed back down to the deck, and Captain Broadlow, the marines, royal guards, and officers all echoed the screams of the wounded sailor with their own shouts of alarm, struck out of their surprise by the sudden danger to their liege lord. They scrambled forward into a tight mob before Wintermourn could open his mouth to bellow commands. He watched in horror as the Brass Paladin pulled back its arm for a blow aimed at Gwydion’s head. 

The prince neatly ducked the armored fist, though it caught his tricorn hat and flung it away. He reached up to grab something hidden up underneath the chin of the automaton and twisted. The Brass Paladin froze, then went limp as the steam puffing from its exhaust slowly died. In moments it stilled, and the only noises were those of the belated scrambling of the crew and the agonized groans of the wounded sailor.

Gwydion laughed aloud and slapped the now-inanimate helmet. The sailor beside him gave a long, barely conscious moan. Gwydion twisted around as if noticing the man for the first time. He grabbed the fellow by the lapels and shook him hard.

“Oh, don’t be such a child. You’ll have
such
a tale to tell the grandchildren!”

Then the royal guard were there, gently reaching down to support the crown prince and raise him back up. Gwydion stepped away from the lifeless automaton, shaking them off. His two attendants appeared and knelt by the machine, directing the sailors in moving it away.

“Off,” said the prince to his guards. “Off! I’m not some high-society socialite, to faint at a bit of excitement. I came out here for a bit of action, and by the Goddess, I’ll have it!”

One of the royal guardsman stammered an apology while Captain Broadlow looked on, white as a sheet. Admiral Wintermourn considered his own reaction. Having the son of the king himself die on his ship, on his watch, would have been a career-ending debacle of the highest order. However, the king was not here at the moment. Gwydion was.

He surprised himself by deciding on tact. “That was deftly done, sir. But perhaps such a threat should be left to your subordinates? It’s what they’re here for, after all.” Admiral Wintermourn flicked a glance at the crippled sailor being carried away. It was obvious he wouldn’t survive the night. “And we might have saved that fellow.” The words felt awkward in his mouth. Sailors were cogs; one was replaceable as any other. Still, it felt a bit off to lose anyone before the battle had even begun.

The crown prince waved nonchalantly. “Bah. I’ve seen designs that will make that fellow obsolete in two years’ time. The Paladins will do the same for your Bluecoats—and my royal guard, even.”

One of the guards flanking Gwydion stared at him in dismay.

“The Paladin was merely reacting to perceived hostility,” continued the prince. “They are meant to be soldiers, after all. These are simply early days yet for them.” He turned and gestured to the airship docked beside the
Colossus
. “The future is coming, my good admiral. These silly sky pirates have had one thing right all these years. Look you there. The
Glory of Perinault
, first of her kind. She’s an amazing craft, Admiral. Simply amazing. Don’t you agree?”

“It is certainly impressive,” agreed Wintermourn with a hesitant nod—this talk of replacing men with machines did not sit well with him. “And the tactical advantages are immediately apparent—advanced intelligence for fleet engagements, increased courier speed. I’m sure that there are some civilian applications to which it could be applied as well.”

Crown Prince Gwydion turned back to stare at him. Then he elbowed Captain Broadlow in the ribs and laughed aloud. “My dear admiral, would you have the
Glory
be no more than some overinflated crow’s nest? No, no, no. She’s a
warship
. Why slug things out on the open seas when you can rain destruction down from above? Thanks to our new guest back at the palace, we’ll soon have a whole fleet of such vessels, some even with their own weaponry aboard, though that’s a bit of a problem at the moment. Think of it, though—the whole of the Perinese Royal Navy replaced in only five years’ time!”

Admiral Wintermourn stared.
Realms Below, he cannot be serious...can he?
A dozen rebuttals crashed together on his tongue.

“Poppycock,” he replied finally, puffing up in spite of himself. “The Royal Navy has guarded the shores of the Kingdom for three hundred years. We’ve proven ourselves better and more able than any other branch, and our traditions have stood against all adversity. Victory is wrought with the blood of sailors, many sailors, and a broadside of a hundred guns. Not clockwork. These new toys may prove useful, but they will not change how things are and have always been.”

He froze as he realized his unforgiveable breach in protocol. But the crown prince only laughed. “Well said! But oh, my dear admiral, just wait until you see her in action.” Gwydion turned again to face him, his eyes serious. “Now. Let us turn our talk to matters of more import.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Wintermourn replied, feeling relieved. The change in topic provided a timely escape from his gaffe. “Every active-duty ship to be spared is here at anchor, primed and ready to crush the pirates. We’d expected the action to begin today, but apparently, the curs have somehow missed our presence. Thus, the action will begin on the morrow, and when they come to meet us, we will be ready.”

“Yes, yes. So you said. I
do
have ears, you know.” The prince shook his head. “But really, that hundred-gun salute you gave. Cease such foolishness in the future.”

Wintermourn paused, uncertain. “I beg your pardon?”

Gwydion clapped his hands together and gestured out at the deck. “Well, it’s loud, isn’t it? Anyone paying any attention at all ought to have heard it. Certainly, a fleet of warships at anchor isn’t exactly inconspicuous, but by some miracle we’ve gone unnoticed until now. We really should take whatever measures we can to keep that advantage.”

Wintermourn blinked in confusion. “Your Royal Highness. The salute is a tradition going back more than a hundred years. You are our liege lord—of the blood royal. Who cares if a bunch of damned rogues
finally
notice their impending doom? We’ll smash them all the same and honor your house, as is only right and proper.”

“It is a matter of effectiveness, my good admiral. The only thing that matters is the result, not how you got there. Looking a man in the eye as you stab him might be rightly honorable, and certainly good fun, but it also gives him a pretty chance to skewer you in return. No, a blade in the back is preferable. We should try to remain hidden now, until tomorrow’s assault.”

Admiral Wintermourn stared in dismay. Tradition was the foundation for His Majesty’s Royal Navy and the bedrock upon which he had built his career. All necessary tactics and actions of command had been appropriately analyzed and tested, requiring only moderate adjustment to an individual situation. If a failing was ever found, it was due to a lack of individual mettle. Courage, honor, and skill could fail. The course itself was always clear.

Yet the crown prince stood before him, on his very flagship, presuming to dictate that this was incorrect. Worse, he was espousing a completely dishonorable alternative. Admiral Wintermourn realized he did not like the crown prince so very much.

“Sir,” he said with condescension. “I must object in the strongest manner possible. To the layman it may seem as if there are inefficiencies in the service, but trust me when I say that there are reasons for such traditions. A variety of them.”

Gwydion waved nonchalantly. “Nevertheless, desist with such pomp in the future. I’ve already made my will clear in this matter, I should think. Oh. And it’s kind of shot for now, but we’ll also keep all deck lamps at half capacity, with night gathering such as it is. Now! With that settled, I will be taking direct command at this moment as well.”

Admiral Wintermourn blinked.
I can’t have heard that right.

“My royal father has given me dispensation for this minor action,” continued the crown prince. “Says I should ‘get my feet wet,’ and frankly, I agree. Dueling in the capital is an amusing diversion, but I mean to control a
real
military conflict. See some action. It’s time we crushed these annoying sky pirates, which should be an adequate test of my abilities.”

Wintermourn felt as if his world were crashing down around him.
What? He cannot...what?
He had known the prince was arriving, of course, but had thought him merely here in an observatory capacity, bringing along the new airship. This gross disrespect for his office was galling in a way he found difficult to express.

“Sir…you cannot be serious. I am Lord High Admiral of the Sea. Command is mine—”

Gwydion stepped in close, pinning Wintermourn with his own wolf-like gaze. “And I will be your king,” he said, low and dangerous. The flippant young man of a minute before was gone as if he had never existed.

Wintermourn worked his jaw as bitter words welled up like black bile. Having to practice such restraint was...difficult. He was unused to it.
You are not king yet.
Wintermourn ducked his head in a deferential nod.

Crewmen and marines both had been directed back to their tasks by his lieutenants during this exchange. They worked as silently as possible, clearly trying to avoid the attention of both the highborn and the murderous mechanical Paladins where they still stood. To Wintermourn’s surprise, though, one sailor moved up to kneel just beside them. It was the ex-officer of the
Goliath
, Able Seaman Hayes.

The former officer dared to glance up, not at him, but to the crown prince. Wintermourn would have been stunned at the breach in protocol were it any other fellow. But Hayes was a toadying worm of a man.
You didn’t learn your lesson after Almhazlik, did you?
He was pleased to find such a ready outlet for his frustrations. Hayes would have lashes for this. Oh yes. He would see the fellow broken.

“Hayes!” he barked. “What are you doing here? Get back to your post until your betters call for you.”

A spasm of worry crossed Hayes’s features, pale and sickly in the twilight gloom. He knew what he was risking. “Sir, yes, sir. It’s just, the launch is ready.”

Wintermourn flushed with anger. “You dog! How dare you talk back—”

“Hold.” Gwydion held up a hand. “What are you about, man?”

Hayes ducked his head. “The special mission, Your Highness. We are prepared and ready to depart.”

Gwydion cocked his head, curious. “What special mission?” he asked Wintermourn. “I was not briefed on any such action.”

This was the last thing Wintermourn wanted to talk about. He regretted ever agreeing to it. “It’s a last-minute thing put together by my subordinate,” replied Wintermourn impatiently. “Sergeant Adjutant Lanters!” he called.

The sergeant crossed the deck from where he’d been inspecting the longboat. Belatedly, he remembered the prince’s station and dropped down to kneel awkwardly. “Sir? Yer Royal Highness?”

“Explain this idea of yours to the prince.”

“Ah, sir.” Lanters nodded and licked his lips and laboriously chose his words. “Well, th’ invasion plan calls fer us to meet the pirates in a fleet action, like usual. Except they haven’t come out yet—or even noticed us. So, we’ve got one o’ these sky pirates, a traitor. We’ve maps off him that say the isles are shot through with all sort o’ twisty waterways. So’s I wondered, why not try a bit o’ sabotage first? A longboat full o’ powder, bombs, and desperate men with nothin’ to lose. They’re to sneak into the pirate port after full dark and do as much damage as they can to the airships there. That’ll alert the pirates, so’s they’ll finally come and face us, and also confirm our route to move the fleet in overland afterward.”